


Rainbows, Day After Day

by poisontaster



Series: Winsister [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-28
Updated: 2007-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is gone, when Dad is dead, she starts creeping into Dean's bed again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainbows, Day After Day

**Author's Note:**

> _When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother: What will I be?_  
>  Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?  
> Here's what she said to me:
> 
> _Que sera, sera._  
>  Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see.  
>  Que sera, sera.  
>  What will be, will be. 
> 
> _When I grew up and fell in love, I asked my sweetheart: What lies ahead?_  
>  Will we have rainbows, day after day?  
>  Here's what my sweetheart said: 
> 
> _Que sera, sera._  
>  Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see.  
>  Que sera, sera.  
>  What will be, will be. 

When Addie was just a little girl, she often crept into Sam and Dean's bed after the lights were out, after Dad was asleep. Her reasons for this were two-fold. The first reason was that she hated the left-out feeling from the closed-circuit of Sam and Dean, the first kids, the _real_ kids, The Boys; children of the beloved Mary. She would wriggle her way in, force them to make space in between and then sleep tangled together with them, her brothers.

The other reason was fear. The truth is, little Addie was often afraid.

Like Sam, she was born into a world of monsters, where what little light that shines in comes from high windows and inaccessible rooms. In those days, Dean was nearly a magical creature, with his memories of Normal, of Mom, of a house with his own room and own bed and own toys and clothes that had never been worn by anybody before him. Later, she'll think that Dean must have embellished those memories a lot, whole fields grown from a single, tiny seed of reality, the only bedtime stories she or Sam will ever know and no less fairy tales for their germination in truth.

But that only makes her love Dean more, for trying, for lying, when she and Sam most needed those comfortable lies to hold back darkness that seemed suffocating, terrifying and all around them.

It's more than John ever gave them in that respect, that's for sure.

When Sam is gone, when Dad is dead, she starts creeping into Dean's bed again.

***

Dean doesn't think about it when he wakes up and finds Addie curled up on the other half of his bed. Maybe he should've, but let's face it—Dean's not the tactician of the family. And maybe the truth is that, even though he hasn't had to share with anyone in the last few years, the bed somehow seems larger, emptier, than it did before he and Addie were the only ones left. So he just throws his arm over her waist the way he did when they were littler and sinks back down into sleep.

This is how it starts.

Dean doesn't know it at the time. He doesn't think Addie does either, but they're hunters; one thing they can do is backtrack a trail to its origin.

After that, and without a word between them, it just becomes a thing. Dean stops renting two queens. Addie stops pretending to sleep in her own bed until after Dean's passed out. They don't talk about it. It works.

For a while.

Dean felt it coming. He didn't know it was, well… _that_ exactly, but he knew _something_ was coming, like animals sense storms, thundery and louring on the horizon. It's just no one's ever been able to tell Addie anything she doesn't want to hear. She's a Winchester too, after all. He feels her building up to something but he doesn't know what. He's afraid to mess with it too much, because a lot of times, that's a lot like poking a hornet's nest with a too-short stick.

So he buys a handle of Jack and a handle of Jim and sets out to get her drunk.

It's better than his first idea, which was to get her laid. That's never worked out well for them.

Ironic, when you think about it.

***

Dean is drunk but he can't blame the drink.

He doesn't think there's enough liquor in all the world to blot out the fact that these are Addie's breasts pressing softly into his chest and that _that_ is Addie's hand curled around his waist, under his shirt and those are Addie's lips and Addie's tongue and Addie's teeth and she's _kissing him._

Dean is drunk but he can't blame the drink. Not for kissing Addie back; kissing her something fierce, like he wants to break her, like he wants to crawl inside her. And maybe he does. How long before Addie leaves him too? How many days does he have, each one hoarded like the last cookie only to crumble away too soon? How long does he have left?

"Addie," he says, "Addie, no."

Surprising no one, Addie doesn't listen.

It doesn't go any further than that, slow, lazy necking and the leisurely grind of hips. Dean's too blotto to even think about coming and he's tired and loose enough that he doesn't remember whether Addie does or not—not until the next part, the next time, when she makes the same quick, quiet hitch-gasp-whimper of breath and the recognition of what it means goes straight to his cock like blood.

Dean would like to be a better man, a stronger man, the man his father always wanted him to be. But when he wakes up in the dirty gray creep of dawn and finds them still tangled together, Addie breathing goose bumps across his neck, he knows he's not a good man. Not at all.

Because he closes his arms tighter around his sister and slips down, back into sleep.

***

Addie can't rightly say she ever really thought of fucking Dean before she first thought of fucking Dean. But once she does think of it, it feels like she can't think of anything else.

For a while they try.

The routine changes again. They go to the bar and Addie goes in one direction and Dean goes in the other, neat as if they planned it. But no matter what happens in those moments and hours they're apart, they always end up in the same place—their room, their bed, kissing away the taste of others, clinging together until their bones creak and groan.

Then, finally, Dean says to her, "Addie… Addie, you should go. Find Sam, find a dude…something. You should go."

He's shaking. And Addie can feel each of those words cut out of him, as if by a knife. The heat that blazes up inside her is different than before, not lust, not rage and not entirely love, but some terrible combination of them all; one that says fiercely _no_ , one that says _mine._

And this she knows; that Dean is hers. Unquestionably, unequivocally _hers_. They all left him to her. And she's not giving him up.

She rolls Dean onto his back, straddling him, and skims her tee shirt away. Dean's hands grip her waist, hard enough for her feel the plea beneath his brave words, but lightly, ready to pull away if she tugs. Instead, Addie leans down, into his face where she knows she'll fill up his vision like the moon. "Dean," she says—growls—filled to bursting with this bitch wolf feeling, _"I'm not going anywhere."_

She drags Dean's hand up to her breast and holds it there. His palm molds to her skin and she can feel her heartbeat against him.

For the first time, Addie doesn't feel afraid.


End file.
